Chapter 12 #2
Wearing a Henley shirt that fits him too well, every line of muscle beneath it is a personal attack on my self-control. My stomach does a ridiculous swoop—like it’s been waiting its whole life for this exact visual—and I immediately yank those thoughts back into the vault where they belong.
Absolutely not.
We are not doing this.
Not swooning over the grump in casual cotton.
“Then why don’t you practice it?” he adds, and his tone is no help whatsoever. Low. Smooth. That syrupy husk that slides right into my ears like it knows the layout.
My glare zeroes in on him as I lift my chin toward the balcony divide. “I am minding my own business on my side of the fence.”
“Who is that?” Ariadne demands in my ear, practically licking her lips with curiosity.
“My very grumpy neighbor,” I say sweetly—sickly sweet—and then I twist the knife. “Mila thinks he’s broken.”
“I’m not broken,” he calls back instantly, affronted.
My smirk grows three sizes.
Oh, this is good. This is so good.
There’s something wildly satisfying about flustering him. Like poking a bear—if the bear also had unfairly good hair, long fingers made for trouble, and the social grace of a man who hasn’t willingly smiled since the early nineties.
“Then, maybe you should stop acting allergic to joy,” I mutter, mostly for Ariadne’s benefit.
But Alec hears.
Of course he hears.
He turns fully toward me, bracing an arm on the balcony railing, staring like I’m the ongoing complication he keeps filing complaints about, but no one listens.
And my heart does a stupid little leap.
Nope.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I mentally grab my hormones by the collar and shove them into a timeout.
Across the line between our balconies, he narrows his eyes. “Some of us enjoy peace.”
“You live next to a child,” I counter. “That ship sailed the moment we unpacked.”
He mutters something under his breath—probably a prayer for patience or a curse directed at the sky—then returns to plucking random guitar strings with the energy of a man personally victimized by my existence.
Ariadne cackles. “Mara . . . darling, your voice changed.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You sound like a woman flirting through gritted teeth.”
“I’m not flirting,” I hiss. “This is survival. He started it.”
Ari hums skeptically. “Sure. And I only date emotionally stable men.”
I so want to hang up on her, but I don’t.
Alec glances over again, catching me mid-exhale, and raises one eyebrow like he can hear every thought I’m trying not to have.
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. If he thinks I’m falling into whatever gravitational pull he has going on . . . well, he can think again.
But my pulse?
My pulse didn’t get the memo.
Ariadne wheezes. “So I’m getting that you have a hot, grumpy neighbor?”
“I didn’t say hot,” I deny, but I’m definitely not lying because I never said he was . . . even when he is.
“Well, he sounds very hot.”
Alec mutters, “You two do know I can hear every word, right? Maybe don’t have the phone on speaker.”
“Then thou dost complain far too much,” I proclaim, absolutely butchering Shakespeare on purpose.
There’s a pause.
He leans enough that I can fully see him under the soft light—jaw strong, eyes focused, curls falling slightly over his forehead. His hand rests on the railing like he’s bracing himself for the apocalypse.
“Listen, what matters is what you said. You mentioned you found a Beatles original,” he says. “Revolver?”
I cock an eyebrow and hold the vinyl against my chest. “Maybe.”
His gaze drops to the record—the look on his face a mix of hunger and reverence, like I’m holding something he’s wanted his entire life.
“Can I . . .” He clears his throat. “Can I see it?”
He sounds almost polite.
I hold it out slowly. He steps closer to the barrier between our balconies, reaching out in a way that makes me oddly aware of the space between us—how close we are without actually touching.
He takes the vinyl carefully, like it might crumble in his hands.
His thumb skims the edge of the sleeve, and something softens—no, something loosens—in the set of his shoulders.
“You seem to like music,” I say.
He shoots me a look that could curdle milk. “Sure, let’s say I like it.” He deadpans.
Ariadne snorts over the phone. “Mara, what did you do in your past life to earn this man?”
Alec turns at the sound of her voice bleeding through the phone. “Who is that?”
“My sanity lifeline,” I say. “Best friend and all the fun titles you might want to add.”
He raises an eyebrow. “She sounds loud.”
“She is. And she’s also nosy,” I add, just as Ariadne blurts: “Is he at least cute? Tell me he’s cute.”
I cup the phone. “Ari, shut up.”
Alec smirks—just a little. Barely there. But on him, it does something infuriating. Something unfair. Something I absolutely should not notice.
It curves at one corner, subtle and sinful, like he knows exactly what effect it has and is too amused to hide it. My stomach flips in a way I refuse to acknowledge on any emotional or hormonal plane.
He flips the vinyl over, studying the back cover like he’s reading scripture, brows drawn in concentration that shouldn’t be nearly as compelling as it is.
“Where did you find this?” he asks.
I point at the box. “Apparently, she has a small collection of those.” I shrug. “She had an entire life she never told anyone about.”
He glances up. “People do that sometimes.”
“You have secrets?” I dare to ask.
His mouth curves—barely—but not in amusement. It’s a look that says You’re digging, a look that catches me off guard because it carries equal parts challenge and . . . understanding.
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, almost not. “Everyone does,” he says, voice dipping low. “Some of us just hide them better.”
Something moves between us then. It’s as if this is the exact moment when two strangers realize they’re not actually strangers. A subtle shift, as if he’s just admitted more than the words themselves reveal—and I’ve stepped closer to the truth without meaning to.
For one breath, it pulls at me, a quiet tug beneath my ribs. It’s just the faint ache of being seen in a place I didn’t expect anyone to look.
I look away quickly, smoothing the edge of the vinyl sleeve, pretending my pulse hasn’t inched higher. “Well,” I say lightly, “I’m very good at finding the things people hide.”
His gaze lingers on me—unreadable, and a little too knowing.
I ignore it. Or try to.
God knows I’m already in enough trouble with myself.
Behind me, Ariadne whispers loudly over the phone, “Oh my God, the tension. I can hear it.”
“Ariadne,” I hiss.
Alec hands the vinyl back with a care that borders on reverence. “That’s a rare find.”
“I know.” I swallow. “Makes me wonder what else is in these boxes. First letters, then vinyl, and—” I shrug not sure how to finish the sentence.
His gaze flicks to the pile behind me. “You’re opening them alone?”
“Unless you plan on helping,” I tease and then I press my lips together because that sounded almost close to flirting and I don’t flirt.
He stiffens like I just proposed marriage. “I—no. I mean—”
“Oh, relax,” I say with a laugh. “I was kidding.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “I wasn’t prepared for this.”
“For what?” I ask.
He hesitates.
Then, suddenly he says, “You.”
That one single word settles somewhere I don’t dare examine.
Ariadne screams through the phone, “Hello? Did he just say you?”
I slap the phone mute before she combusts.
Alec runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “I mean—people. I hate . . . not . . . great.” He clears his throat, wincing. “I sound like an idiot. I’m not great with people.”
“It’s a skill,” I say. “You’ve probably been a hermit your whole life.”
He laughs—manic and nervous, like the noise startled him as much as it does me.
His eyes meet mine.
And for a breath, everything slows.
“I wish I had been a hermit all my life . . . and slightly sheltered,” he confesses.
“The word sheltered is relative,” I reply. “Apparently, my family sheltered me from whatever my aunt left behind. Or maybe everyone lived in that bubble and I’m the one who has to burst it. Who knows?”
“What’s your aunt’s story?” he asks quietly. “The letters?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I’m starting to think she wanted me to find them and break the news to everyone.” I force a small smile. “I should unpack. Figure out the key to my freedom.”
“You need help.” He gestures at the vinyl in my hand. “I know some about music.”
“How much?” I narrow my gaze. “Like you listen to the radio every day, or your parents curated your taste level?”
He shrugs. “I think my parents died when I was a baby—or they abandoned me. Who knows?”
I freeze.
All my assumptions—every snarky thought—collapse into silence.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay.” He looks away for a moment, jaw shifting as if he’s choosing words he rarely lets out. “You can’t miss what you never had.”
Then he leans back against the railing—trying for casual, failing, because his voice lowers in a way that pulls at me. “Yeah. I should . . . go inside.”
I want to remind him he practically offered to help, or ask him to stay.
But how can I ask him for anything when I probably just pressed against a bruise he probably never talks about?
So I swallow the impulse and say, “Goodnight, Alec.”
He pauses mid-step.
Looks at me.
His gaze lingers—warming, searching, almost careful—like he’s trying to memorize something before he lets himself leave. The air between us feels stretched, waiting for a decision neither of us is brave enough to make.
“Goodnight, Mara,” he finally says.
And the way my name leaves his mouth . . . it slips under my skin before I have a chance to brace. I watch him turn, watch the door close behind him, and I’m still standing there like someone pressed pause on my entire evening.
I inhale, try to gather myself, then unmute the phone and make sure it’s not on speaker. “Hey, I’m back.”
Ariadne shrieks, “I KNEW IT. I KNEW HE WAS HOT.”
I cover my face. “Ari—”
“Mara, if you don’t kiss that man within the year, I’m flying there myself.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re welcome.”
But I’m barely listening.
Because my gaze drifts back to Alec’s balcony. He’s on the other side of the glass door, but still standing. Waiting, like he’s not sure whether to run or stay.
Same, buddy. Same.
But as he finally walks away, I can’t shake the feeling that he knows more about heartbreak than he’ll ever admit . . . and that my aunt’s letters aren’t the only secrets waiting for me here.